Poetry

Me; you

I want you to see me

I want you to see me in all of my forms

 

when I’m ecstatic

and can’t stop grinning no matter how serious everyone else is

 

when I’m in a rage

and want to break things to vent my fuming energy

but usually end up silently cursing because I’m at work

 

when I’m overwhelmed

by everything and shut down inside

losing interest in just about everything until my energy returns

 

when I’m so excited

by something that you hear every detail six

times over and begin to get a little excited yourself,

even though you have no personal interest in what it is

 

I want you to see me

when I understand

 

I want you to see me

when I don’t

 

I want you to see me

without the act

without the walls

without the white lies that say I’m okay

even as I’m falling away inside.

 

I want you to see

me

Poetry

Inked

My hands are circuit boards, lines inked like solder

to connect all the dots. A map of who I am

woven into a cloak so you can’t see me at all

unless I show you the route with red marker.

You might not want to look past my shield,

sometimes I don’t want you to, either.

It’s when I break down without knowing,

becoming still and silent, a signpost to nowhere,

that I need you to see. The me behind it all.

Poetry

Up to those eyes

In them we see

sugar and spices,

an apple pie baked full of ideas

all original.

Of course they’re original,

they made them,

enveloped them in tangy sauce

sprinkled with cinnamon

we find out is actually chilli.

Oh, and the homemade pastry?

That came from a shop.